


Scrap

by hellhoundsprey



Series: winkline bingo 2021 [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alien Sex, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Space, Bestiality, Body Horror, Bottom Dean Winchester, Bottom Jack Kline, Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Incest, Knotting, Multi, Oviposition, Past Character Death, Shapeshifting, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:01:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29698860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: To the demise of his partner and every ecosystem they encounter, Jack Kline has the bad habit of picking up strays.(ASKYDUST!verseAU.)winkline bingo 2021: 23 alien pet
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Other(s), Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Jack Kline/Dean Winchester, Jack Kline/Other(s)
Series: winkline bingo 2021 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2026918
Comments: 7
Kudos: 26





	Scrap

Another glance over his shoulder before Jack turns forward once more. He keeps walking.

Their boots crunch heavy in the dirt. Jack frowns.

He whispers: “Dean, it’s still—following us.”

“Goddammit.”

Jack flings himself between the muzzle of Dean’s instantly drawn-and-pointed gun and the creature.

Dean growls, “Move.”

“No!” Jack has his arms stretched out. The air circulating in his suit is stale by now, rich with salt. Jack trembles. They’re at their limit, both of them. “It didn’t do anything! _Please_!”

Calm but low, “Move, Jack,” but Jack takes another step closer. His chest pokes against Dean’s gun.

Dean’s frown hardens.

Jack thinks he hears him sigh.

Hears the animal several feet behind them standing still, waiting. Watching.

Dean drops his gun arm, finally. Jack looks back at the creature.

“We should take it with us.”

“Oh, no. No no no, no fucking way.”

“It’s all alone out here!”

“Well, what a lucky sonofabitch.” Dean tucks his gun back into its holster. “No way, absolutely not. I’m serious.”

~

“It doesn’t go on the beds. _Any_ beds. You hear me?”

Jack brushes the creature’s ears back over its head. It let him pick it up without a fuss and now sits peacefully in his lap.

“I asked if you _heard me_ , Jack.”

“Yes, of course.”

Dean thumbs the buttons and switches necessary for take-off with superfluous pressure. They will get blocked again and he will curse over how finicky ‘this damn old panel’ is when he will ultimately have to take care of them.

Jack smiles down to the animal. How small it is. It looked bigger back on the planet.

“I will let it have one of my pillows.”

“No.”

“Why are you—”

Dean interrupts him by yanking at the lever above Jack’s head. Jack glares daggers and Dean meets his eyes pointedly unapologetic.

“There is no reason to be this cruel. It deserves a _bed_.”

“And I deserve not to die of some weird-ass pollen or, or, patches of—fucking poisonous _fur_.”

Dean flicks the radio on last before he extends the steering wheel out of the console and into his awaiting hand. He gives the animal a nasty look.

He mumbles, “It better blow up like the last one.”

Their ship takes off, slow and loud but surely, and as they warp off, the planet is left behind just a little emptier than before.

~

Jack interrupts his shifting through their haul to dig the animal back out of the heap. Again.

“This is not a game,” he murmurs. The animal yips. Jack kisses its head, pets it. “Please behave. I have to finish this before bedtime.”

He sets the small thing aside on its pillow. It doesn’t leap back into action right away, so Jack picks up where he left off. Wipes dust away, oil remnants. Picks at crusts and rust and sips from his nearby water bottle every now and then. Dean is quiet up front in the cockpit—Jack can hear his Walkman all the way back here. A tap to a button or a low-whistled tune every once in a while. The whirr of the ship’s machinery cradles them.

Once his work is done, Jack proceeds with nightly hygiene. He grabs one of the nutrition bars out of the according drawer; two, on a second thought.

“So peculiar,” he murmurs. The creature chews with gusto. It got bigger again. Scales instead of fur. A long snout and claws.

“Are you giving it _our food_?”

“No?”

Dean grumbles, “Uh-huh,” and Jack gathers his newest pet to bring it to safety. And what place is safer than a bed, really?

~

It shifted again. Long enough that Jack can big-spoon it, comfortable to wrap his arms around. The (very) limited space of their sleeping cabin never fails to drag him right under. Like a cave, he thinks. A nest.

Despite his exhaustion, he wakes a couple of times. Groans and tugs the blankets tighter, hugs the animal closer. It stirs, restless. Animals can have nightmares, too.

Jack pets, and he soothes. Coos things he remembers his mom doing for him, way back. Things Dean tells him. Slumber, again. Waking, again.

It squirms and he shushes, cradles it to his chest. “You miss your home? I’m sorry.” It doesn’t reply.

A vague, pleasant dream on the next short-lived episode of sleep—Dean and him, back home. In their little apartment and he comes back to fresh-baked pastries, to Dean on the pleasant side of drunk that makes him put on music. They dance, stupid. Dean kisses him. Beds him on that carpet a client was about to throw out and which Jack persuaded Dean would at least cover the burnt spots on the floor.

Jack sighs awake. The poor creature is writhing in his arms again.

Jack murmurs, “Warm,” and the next time he blinks, its skin has shifted into long, velvet fur.

Jack’s eyes go wide in the dark.

The animal rolls on top of him entirely, then.

Heavy, and—so warm. Jack chuckles, “Hey, easy,” and the kiss comes so suddenly, so abruptly, that he can’t turn his head or push it off or—anything.

A long, slick tongue rolls against his lips, and he parts them on instinct, without thought.

It tastes—weird. Slick and sweet and Jack scrambles, but the animal shifts itself heavy and steady and won’t go anywhere. Jack bucks off the bed to no avail.

He notes, “Woah,” once he can, while the animal nuzzles the side of his face and—purrs. Vibrations, low and deep from within that chest and Jack hugs the animal a little tighter to feel it better. So fascinating. So curious.

It cuddles up to him, smoothes them together. Its claws dig into him, gently, into the softness of his worn-down shirt, his boxers. Jack hesitates before he curls in again, around it. Cradles it. Lets it kiss him again.

Those paws grow more distinct until Jack has nearly-humanoid hands shoving at his shirt, the waistband of his underwear. He mumbles, sighs. Lets it be clumsy until he’s too riled up and pushes his shorts down by himself, worms them off his feet. The creature sniffles, pushes. It firms its position and Jack’s heart pummels fast in his chest with the thrill of it.

He asks, “Like this?” and gets a purr for parting his legs, nudging them around the creature’s hips once it’s fitted itself there. Gets another of those insane, deep kisses. Now, this goes straight to the _Dean doesn’t have to know_ pile.

It begins to hump him, and he doesn’t stop it.

Breathes thin and stumbling and its fur drags beautifully over the already-hard pole of his cock, and it’s—oh, lords. Oh, _wow_.

“H-here?” and Jack already knows before he asks, and, yes, the slick head of its cock bumps against the fingers immediately, imperatively, and for a second, Jack considers—putting an end to this, to fight it off, call for Dean. Something.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he parts his fingers wider, holds himself just open enough for the creature to get a chance to find its mark and sink into him.

It’s one long, hurried push, and Jack gulps down a panicked noise when _it just won’t stop_.

The creature brings its hips down with one low, satisfied growl, and Jack has about enough time to wind his legs around it and slap one hand over his own mouth before it starts pumping into him with deep, full thrusts.

Its furred balls are heavy and huge as they slap down on Jack’s ass on every too-slick downstroke, and Jack is—overwhelmed. It nudges their faces together until Jack grants it access to his mouth again and lets its fat tongue muffle him instead.

Even with Dean, it never—Jack’s never—

“O-oh, shh, shhhh, please, _please_ —”

The animal continues to growl despite Jack’s wrangled grip on its jaws, albeit quieter. Nevertheless, Jack feels it shifting to get its knees settled right and pound his ass even harder. Hard enough for the bed to start creaking faintly, and he swallows another low whine and prays that Dean is too busy or too drunk to hear them.

Their pet is—fucking him. The pet they picked up and fed and hadn’t even picked a name for yet, and it’s buried so deep in Jack’s guts he swears he can feel it in the pit his goddamn stomach.

He hasn’t even managed to get his hand between their bodies before he’s already creaming himself; all over his hand, its fur. He sobs for the pressure, for the creature not stopping for a beat.

When Jack realizes it won’t stop until it’s done, it has already folded him in on himself tighter. His ass comes off the mattress and his knees nearly kiss his shoulders.

Jack has both hands fisted into its fur and gulps the air between their mouths. The dangerous snarls, bared teeth. Sickly sweet, like honey, and he is going to come again just like this.

He whines, as quietly as he can, “I, I can’t,” and not a second later, it—changes.

Grows bigger, somehow, around the base, and it inflates and inflates, and—

The creatures fully buries Jack underneath itself when their bodies lock together. With his wet, overheated face muffled by the soft, brown fur, Jack can at least sob openly. Is held down, rocked into, while the creature’s cock noticeably throbs and spurts deep inside of him, fills him up with no room left to argue.

The creature keeps rocking its hips to work itself deep. Every fat vein on its cock is popped and rubs along every nerve Jack’s insides have to offer while the huge knot at its base stretches him wider than anything Jack’s ever let himself imagine. He doesn’t stand a chance.

He comes again, dry. Trembles and flails for how his ass spasms around the too-big cock plugged up inside of it, and the creature purrs, pleased, and slurps its tongue deep into the back of Jack’s mouth. Gives him something to take his mind off, to whimper around. Jack takes it.

It cuddles up with him, still tied, still filling Jack with its come. Kisses and nuzzles and licks, and Jack has nearly calmed down or slipped into unconsciousness by the time he feels the knot finally going down.

He urges, “Slow,” and, “Wait,” but the creature moves on its own account. Rocks, still mostly erect, until its cock pops free—stuffs it back inside, repeats the process a couple of times. Jack is not much more than a sweaty, shivering mess at this point; can barely hang on, barely move. Oversensitive and spent and he babbles, “N-no, no more,” but it shuts him up with its tongue again while it fucks its load deep into his already blown-out ass.

Once it slips out for good, Jack doesn’t get much time to sigh in relief—gets bent deeper, and the long tongue that had dipped past his tonsils just a moment ago now laps right into the creamed mess of his hole, and he is too weak to wrestle a pillow over his face. He makes do by clenching his mouth shut while the animal cleans him up, slurps the worst mess away.

It’s still purring.

~

A blind reach—another handful of nutri tabs. Dean chews and taps his tablet screen for the next chapter. A quick glance at the clock, at the radar. Smooth sailing as per usual around these stars.

The door to the sleeping cabin slides open behind him.

Dean’s, “Heh. Choir boy bladder,” is muffled by the unfinished bites in his mouth.

He nearly chokes on his food when the glance he throws halfway over his shoulder shows someone definitely _not Jack_.

The thing looks back at him and the barrel of his gun with a curious expression.

“DUDE you—lords fucking shit, don’t fucking _do that_!” He hisses the words; shoves the gun back into his thigh holster. “I’ll put a fucking bullet in you next time, so fucking watch it, okay?” He turns further on his seat. He narrows his eyes as he takes in the creature. “And slow down with the fucking shapeshifting. What is that supposed to be, a dog?”

It shifts again.

Longer legs, and it walks over to him an all six of them. Its antlers beam bright with heat. Dean nudges its face away with a firm grip-and-shove on its velvety muzzle. It grunts.

Dean warns, “Personal space,” and withdraws his hand in horror as the creature’s long, textured tongue slides out of its mouth and attempts to curl around Dean’s fingers.

It flinches with another small noise when Dean slaps it atop its nose.

“No! Bad alien! _Gross_ , ugh.”

He can stop his hand one inch short of wiping the alien goo on his pants. He gives the animal a stern look before he gets himself to a stand and moves over to the sink.

Again movement behind him and he’s growled, “Don’t,” before it reaches him, but he gets touched nonetheless.

Arms. Humanoid, and.

Parts of a second of catching its reflection in the mirror but Dean’s already turning around, two arms wound around his middle like an embrace and he’s opening his mouth to—scream? Curse? Gasp?

But the creature says,

“You will wake him up,”

and Dean’s voice dies in his throat.

One hand finds the sink, the other gets stopped from patting his leg down for his gun.

He stammers, “Th-this, how,” but the creature is silent again, calm. It easily wrenches Dean’s gun arm up to his own chest and presses it down; a bunch of inches away from the pendant caught underneath his tank top, and even after all this is over, Dean won’t be able to distinguish whether it made him docile or if he just fucking lost it himself.

It’s kissing him. ( _They are_ kissing.) Dean can’t breathe.

“S-Sam—?”

Those eyes, just like Dean remembers. Sharp and awake and curious and he’s older, as old as he would be now, maybe, if he hadn’t...if he wasn’t...

The creature (Sam?) grabs hard at Dean’s crotch with the hand not keeping his arm in check, and Dean knows he’s gasping _now_. Twists, but it’s got him, and his other arm is bearing too much weight for him to swing a punch with it.

“What, th-that—don’t,” and it feels weak, and it _comes out_ weak.

It dips their faces together again. Dean has enough willpower to fight it for a short moment.

Low, again, “Don’t wake him,” and Dean whines somewhere deep in his chest and tears bite at his eyes and he—can’t—

It yanks his pants open, pulls his shirt up his stomach—heated and impatient and Dean’s systems roar from zero to a hundred just like that. Just like back then, when.

“Exactly,” it says, hushed and hot against Dean’s cheek, his ear.

Dean’s blood doesn’t know where to rush to exactly. The creature presses him down with one too-strong hand between his shoulders; the metal sink is shock-cool against his skin, and.

“W-wait—!”

It doesn’t.

Dean hauls in air—gets one and then two hands wrenched over his mouth, clenching him into silence while he shakes, pushed up to the top of his toes (still inside his boots).

He can barely even hear his own whimper.

Sammy’s always been a big boy, hasn’t he.

“I will make you feel good. Very good.”

It rocks in deep, and where there should be pain is just— _wet_ , and—

“Yes,” it murmurs with a voice that carries just enough similarity to what Dean remembers that his brain refuses to believe anything else. “But you have to be quiet, okay, Dean?”

Dean nod-whimpers into the still-there iron grip and the next roll of the alien’s hips stirs him enough to blink his tears into full reality.

It says, “Be good for me, now,” and Dean closes his eyes.

It pulls out far enough that when it pumps back in, their skins meets with a muffled, wet slap.

Dean feels his face rushing hot underneath the creature’s palms. Bites back the noises that work up his throat. He keeps himself still.

Dreamy, wonderous, “You feel so good inside,” and Dean diligently clenches his lips tight when the hands retreat one by one, clamp themselves around his hips instead to make him meet the alien’s hungry, long thrusts. Dean’s breath comes sharp and from his nose, and he can’t help but crane his neck, look back and up to that—face.

Sam’s face. Sam.

As if it could read his mind, it grabs his right arm. Angles and pins it behind his back. His pants slouch lower. His holster and gun are now tangled around his ankle, on the ground.

Dean’s other arm reaches behind himself. For what, he cannot say. The creature catches that one as well, effortlessly. It keeps both of his wrists in one of its hands.

Faster, harder. As Dean gasps, the creature grunts; feral, nasty.

It’s not fully Sam’s voice anymore for the snarled, “Good bitch,” but it’s close enough.

It’s been too long. With Jack, he doesn’t hand over control like this, doesn’t want to get fucked like this. But now, so easily, he melts—is hard nearly all the way and pushed up against the metal sink compartment, and lords it’s fucking big, bangs him out with a force that should hurt and it _does_ but not in a violent, searing way, just—maddening, and wet, so fucking slick, what even...

“For your own good,” it pants, and maybe it _can_ read his mind because something pushes up behind his just-parted lips and over his tongue and down his throat and he chokes, muffled and shocked and he seizes, but it’s thick and smooth except for the nubbed underside of it. Dean tries to scream but there is nothing coming out around the sheer girth of that—thing in his mouth.

It is then that Dean realizes that both his hands and hips are held—simultaneously.

And that whatever holds his wrists does _not_ feel like a hand.

A snarled, breathless, “C’mon,” with Dean’s dead brother’s voice again, urgent and pleading and Dean allows himself to be walked over to the table, the horrendous rug Jack insisted they keep for this common area. The alien flattens him out underneath itself, at first, with a full, satisfied groan. (It sounds like it’s holding itself back, too, though; quiet as to not attract any attention from Jack who’s happily snoozing next-door.)

“So good,” again, younger and closer to what Dean remembers and he half-swallows. The alien laps along the hot shell of his ear as something worms between the rug and Dean’s body, and Dean tries to buck and escape it, but—to no avail.

Another tentacle, slim but not any less strong than the others, curls up and around his trapped cock and tightens, fast. Fast enough that Dean’s hips squirm on instinct and his balls draw up tight before another tentacle gets those, too. It pulls them slightly _down_ and Dean groans around the flesh in his mouth, and his knee jerks uselessly when the slim tip of the one curled around his cock probes at his slit and pushes _in_.

The creature purrs as it lifts its (Sam’s) massive body off Dean’s back. Something else (another tentacle?) replaces the weight, though, to keep Dean pinned chest to floor while the alien sits back on its (Sam’s) haunches to drive its cock deep inside Dean’s ass.

It slurs, “Yes,” to no question in particular—Dean can’t think. The constant pounding and thrumming goes straight to his nuts, straight to his head. The tentacle in his cock slips deeper with every playful push and its suckers catch weird inside, bulge him out.

“Like this, yes?” and the fat tentacle in Dean’s mouth begins moving as well.

Whatever sound Dean’s throat tries to make gets eaten up by the thick plug of the tentacle fucking his mouth. He can’t hear anything but the wet squelch of the alien fucking him, and the pounding rush of blood in his ears.

It says, “So sturdy. Perfect,” and Dean’s putty body tenses on reflex for the push—deeper—into his guts, and—wider, too.

It shushes him as he squirms against its unbreakable, multifold hold.

Up (in) his ear and, “Don’t wake him up, don’t wake him up,” chanted and quiet and it’s too familiar, too real, all of it.

Something tries to push into him from the inside—is followed by a stinging, hot pain once it succeeds, and he’d yelp if he could, would fight if he could.

“Shhh,” soothes his brother, drops his sweat over the back of Dean’s neck; a wet kiss, half a bite. One hand down to cup Dean’s lower stomach all warm and big. The frantic tiny tentacle slopping into Dean’s cock gets ignored in favor of feeling its own cock bumping into its palm from inside of Dean. “Almost there.”

The pressure travels—deeper inside, and the renewed stretch forcing down on Dean’s sphincter insanely overlaps with the first one that pops free deep inside, nestles just under those fingers.

“You can take all six. I know you can, Dean.”

Dean can’t reply, can’t argue, can’t fight. His breathing spirals out of control for good but he can’t tell if that’s the source for his lightheadedness or if it is the—pain. The _stretch_ , not exactly a pain, no, but it’s so much, _too_ much, and he can’t fathom want he looks like but he knows something’s _wrong_.

He heaves, and he huffs. The creature soothes him, cards through his hair and mumbles sweet into his ear, kisses his neck. It’s not moving much anymore, just holds on and works those— _things_ inside of him.

It’s the opposite of a relief when it praises, “See? I told you.”

It sits back once more, pulls its clearly no longer humanoid cock slightly out with the movement—just to shove back in right away, bump against the heavy weights it planted inside of Dean, and Dean realizes, then. What just happened.

“Strong, gorgeous human,” he hears, and all tentacles pick up where they left off, and he loses it.

He can barely spill a drop of his orgasm around the deeply stuffed tentacle; if anything, the sudden clench and eruption only motivates it to stroke him harder from the inside. Dean’s throat works heavy around the groans and pleas he can’t vocalize while the alien redoubles its effort, spurred on by the off-rhythm, intense tremors of Dean’s insides. It pumps into him sloppy and heavy and it follows him not much later—holds itself as deep as it will go, pressure of its bodyweight and all, and despite it all, Dean can feel the indistinctive spill and spread of—heat, and slick.

“He is too young. It didn’t feel right,” it explains, eventually, close to Dean’s face. He startles halfway awake, tries to turn his head. It lets him.

It’s still atop of him. Still inside of him.

“You understand, right?”

Dean thinks he hears himself croak, “Yes.”

It hugs him sweet from behind. Scoops him up in Sam’s big, warm arms. Nuzzles Dean’s nape with Sam’s sweaty face; tickles him with Sam’s too-long hair.

It informs, sighing: “I don’t like this form.”

“Then give it back...”

“Hm?”

His voice sounds muffled against the rug, the floor. He repeats, “I said to give it _back_ , then, motherfucker.”

“Oh, but I didn’t ‘take’ anything. But yes, gladly,” and Dean feels it changing, just like that. Warm and heavy, still, but its skin is no longer human. No hair, no fingers.

It sighs again. It sounds...tired. Satisfied.

The next time Dean wakes, he’s seated in his captain’s chair. He startles farther upright.

In his lap lies a tiny, warm weight. The alien—shifted to something more domestic, innocent once more. Peacefully, it sleeps, curled up against the prominent swell of Dean’s lower stomach.

Dean heaves even faster than his hands can put themselves on his body.

The alien barely even stirs. Its ear flicks in its sleep.

Dean’s hands squeeze—solid. Rounded.

Cold sweat.

He looks up, disoriented.

The radar is quiet, peaceful, as it always is around these stars. Ten more hours to go.

He forces himself to pluck one of his hands off his stomach to press a few buttons, check a few stats. They’re good, still.

He looks over his shoulder, towards the still-closed door of the sleeping cabin. His clothes—fit. Despite the swell around his middle.

Both hands go back to his belly.

Whisper-sighed: “Fuck.” Panic. Bile.

Dean forces his eyes closed and begins to count down from ten.


End file.
